


I Know Everything (You Don't Want Me To)

by thewolvesweloved



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cheating, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Future Fic, Love Triangles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:53:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvesweloved/pseuds/thewolvesweloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Allison walks to the kitchen. She stares at the cold mugs, her cheeks wet. She takes off her ring, and drops it in Scott’s cup, in the tea. Because that’s all that was left. Scott had drowned their marriage and ruined her all with a cup."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know Everything (You Don't Want Me To)

Allison comes home early one day to a pair of shoes by the door.

That’s not unusual. Whenever Scott and her have guests over, Allison’s request to leave the shoes by the front door, as to not track dirt through the house, usually is obeyed without question. Even Stiles obeys her on that one, even though he’s still as hyperactive and defiant at twenty-six as he was at sixteen. 

What’s unusual is that she didn’t know Scott had a visitor. Granted, most of the time, the werewolves in Scott’s pack show up unannounced. But after one surprise visitor too many, Allison made Scott promise to let her know whenever they had company, no matter if she’d be home or not.

Allison walks in the kitchen. Something feels off, somehow. She spins around in the kitchen slowly, trying to pinpoint it. Then it comes to her. It’s the smell.

The smell of coffee is heavy in the air. Scott doesn’t drink coffee. He drinks tea. In fact, Stiles doesn’t even drink coffee anymore, and Lydia quit drinking the stuff after learning how much better green tea was for her body. The only person Allison knows that drinks coffee is Isaac, and even that is decaf.

Allison notices the two mugs. There’s a tea bag on a plate, and if Allison will step closer, she’ll know that it’s probably Scott’s favorite kind: apple. The other one is by the coffeepot that’s still full of black liquid. She inspects that one, stares at the light beige flavor. She almost dips a finger in to taste, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t need to. She’s taken plenty of accidental sips of Isaac’s coffee to know the sweet, milky flavor. They bonded over their shared affection of Scott McCall and coffee, and their coffee dates weekly are ones that Allison looks forward to.

Allison’s head spins. She’s trying to make sense of it. There’s a whisper in the back of her mind, and she shuts it down immediately. She shuts it down immediately because it’s not possible.

Her fingers insist on curving around the mug, just checking to see the temperature. It’s the motherly side of her, she tells herself. She’s wanted a child for a while now, but one too many failed attempts, and a visit to a gynecologist tells her she can’t bear one. She doesn’t want to adopt either; she doesn’t know how to introduce a foster kid to the world of werewolves.

Her fingers curve around the porcelain, testing. It’s cool. It’s been sitting on the counter for half an hour or more.

She can’t fight the gasp that comes through her lips, or the way her world suddenly feels like it’s been shaken. She finds herself clutching at the counter, her vision blurry and her legs trembling. Allison tells herself there must be a plausible reason, tells herself that there’s no way Scott would do that to her, to them, to the pack. Scott must have forgotten, too lost in pack business to pull out his phone and send that quick text.

She pulls away from the counter. Her heels feel like stilts, and she feels like she could stumble, she could trip. Her mouth is firm, though, and she blinks back the tears and takes the first steps upstairs.

Each step sounds like a gunshot. Both a gunshot and a drumroll. She counts how many stairs there are, just like she counted when she bought this house four years ago. She’d been counting them with glee, sure that she’d be carrying a werewolf baby down those steps within two years.

They’d made love in every room of the house—the bathroom was a silly, soapy affair and the laundry room an intense tryst brought on by too few clean clothes. They’d made love and then they’d gone through pregnancy test after test. A year of trying had passed, and she’d gone to the gynecologist. That had been two years ago.

Allison reaches the second floor. She can hear something, something just out the range of her hearing. She knows, though. She knows that werewolves know how to be quiet.

She takes one stride forward, letting that flutter, that murmur of sound enter her range. She knows it well, knows the wet slap of flesh against flesh, making a grand symphony with hisses and stifled moans. 

She steps forward again and again. Allison McCall is walking, walking to the bedroom door that’s just a little ajar. Just a little, but enough.

She doesn’t dare press at the door, let it open wider. She doesn’t dare say anything, even as tears burn her eyes.

They’re so beautiful. Of course they’re beautiful. They’ve always been beautiful together, with the countless ways Isaac’s dry humor can make Scott smile like no other, or the way Isaac listens to Scott’s analysis of pack business and politics in a serious, respectful way that Derek can’t match. But they’re especially beautiful now.

They’re both naked. Allison catches glimpses—Scott’s ass and Isaac’s nipples. Isaac’s legs spread apart, and Scott’s hips thrusting. It’s a visual feast to behold, and it’s hidden away. Isaac’s head is thrown back, his hands groping and grabbing. He’s lost in complete abandon, complete trust as Scott thrusts in him again. The expression Isaac’s wearing is a foreign one on his face, but it makes him look ten times more angelic. He’s never worn that expression of complete surrender—there’s always been something tethering him, holding him back from letting go. But not now. Not now.

Allison’s fingers go to the wedding band on her finger. She twists it, around and around. It feels like a weight as she watches her husband thrust into someone else. They haven’t had sex since Allison’s twenty-seventh birthday, nearly a month ago. She wonders how long this has been going on, how long it took Isaac to trust Scott to let himself be fucked up the ass.

Allison walks away from the door, from the couple. She twists at her ring as she walks down the stairs quietly.

They never were meant to be. High school sweethearts never did work out. No one knew who they were in high school. Getting married was stupid. So, so stupid. She’d pushed for it, wanted something stable after the death of her mother. His father had smiled when he’d learned the news of their engagement, but he hadn’t said anything. It’d irritated Allison, even as Melissa McCall had showered plenty of happiness and praise on her.

No one knew who they were in high school. Allison paces. She wants to throw up. She wants to scream, to cry, to stop the thing of beauty happening upstairs on her bed. She thought she’d known herself. She thought she’d fallen in love with Scott.

She didn’t know Scott. The revelation strikes her, and she feels herself falling apart. She didn’t know Scott, even though they’d been married for more than five years.

Isaac knows Scott. Isaac trusts Scott. Isaac was the one who Scott wanted. Scott didn’t lie. Scott didn’t do these things for pure physical gratification. There was something deeper. There is something deeper.

Allison walks to the kitchen. She stares at the cold mugs, her cheeks wet. She takes off her ring, and drops it in Scott’s cup, in the tea. Because that’s all that was left. Scott had drowned their marriage and ruined her all with a cup.

Allison slams the door behind her when she walks out to her car.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the The Civil Wars song, "Poison & Wine"


End file.
